Sex, Drugs & No Idea

27: Rehab

Where had it all begun? A philosophical question. But, on this occasion, it'd started at the Coral Bungalows. Apparently, it was infamous on the Thailand backpacking circuit, which is precisely the reason Frenchy had suggested and then booked it for the six compatriots. Charlie had very little personal experience, when it came to attesting to the establishment's almost piratical reputation for sexual debauchery and moral turpitude though, because for the first four days that the group stayed there he was laid up in bed.

Charlie had been sick. Very sick. In fact, he'd been on the cusp of throwing in the towel. He might've been on Death's very doorstep. He didn't know. He wasn't a doctor.

On the boat from Koh Samui he hadn't been able to finish his beer. That'd been remarked upon by the gang, as had his increasingly cabbage-like hue.

"You're fucking green as, bro," Dang said.

Charlie had attempted to counter him with a scathing remark or two about his resemblance to a festering butt boil, but in the place of words his mouth was suddenly filled with the acidic taste of his gorge rising.

He'd initially thought it'd been seasickness, but the sea had been flat and the boat wide and balanced and slow. By the time they got to Coral Bungalows all Charlie been capable of was falling into bed and passing out.

The six young men had been on the piss every single day without fail for about fifty days at that point and, although 'abuse' was a word loaded with a lot of negative connotations, they'd definitely been ill treating––challenging––their bodies and drinking more than was advised by health professionals. It was hardly a surprise really, that one of them had finally succumbed to the rigours of the road. Charlie was just a bit gutted that it was he who had let the team down. The company were a predictably sympathetic bunch.

"Well, shit, Charlie," said Frenchy, poking his head into the room Charlie was sharing with Hugo, "you look like you'd have to get better to die."

"Up...yours," Charlie croaked back.

Frenchy raised his glass and took a swig. "Drink?"

Charlie groaned and pulled the finger. Frenchy left, and Hugo walked in.

"You able to move yet, mate?" he asked airily, rummaging in his pack for his towel.

"No."

"Ah well, takes one to know one doesn't it, mate."

"Takes one to... What?"

But Hugo wasn't listening. The sun was bright and warm outside and the pool and bar crooked their alluring fingers. Charlie was simply a wounded member of the party who needed time and peace to heal.

Charlie stayed in that room for four days and slept fitfully. When he bothered to think about anything at all, it was to ponder on the fact that he'd never been confined by his own to bed for more than a day. Not as far as I could remember. The air-con kept him cool and that was something, but he couldn't hold down any food whatsoever. Nothing. Not a crumb. That was fine though, because he was too worried and preoccupied with the fact that he also couldn't stomach water. That was a new one for him; the first time he'd experienced that particular problem in twenty-seven years of life. He'd take a few swallows of beautifully chilled water, lie back down on his bed and then, within half a minute, be compelled to run to the loo spew his ring-piece out. His body's seemingly total lack of willing to imbibe a substance that was quite crucial in it's continual effective running was the factor that almost swayed him to book a flight back to the States, and his doctor.

It was violent illness, and Charlie hadn't a clue what had caused it or what it was, and only his blind optimism shielded him from the very real possibility that he might have gone and given himself alcohol poisoning.